Snow

I pulled out a journal that dates back to eleven years ago with the intent of reading a bit and then destroying it. I used to write. I used to write a lot. I never intended to write poetry; I just wrote what came out and it took the form that it wanted. Now writing is like pulling teeth -- my own teeth.

Here's what I wrote on January 7, 1996. I stood on a picnic table at one in the morning and allowed myself to fall backward into the snow. Then, the snow was two feet deep; now, it's three inches deep.

a fall of faith
somehow i passed through
without breaking
the surface and it
loved me
more the faster i ran i wanted
to go down
beneath the snow
because looking up
from down there,
the sky moves so quickly